Reborn, She's Back for Revenge novel Chapter 155

Chapter 155

Joselyn had been forced to share one excruciating dinner with Hallie. The memory alone made her jaw clench. If Hallie approached now, Joselyn knew her own face would betray every ounce of distaste. The judges would notice.

A single flicker of disapproval from Joselyn Cornell could nudge their pencils downward, and Hallie’s score would suffer. Joselyn might dislike the girl, but she refused to sabotage a teenager’s future over a personal whim.

She pivoted sharply, ducked into the side hallway, and slipped inside the private lounge Harvey had reserved for her. The door clicked shut behind her.

Hallie scowled. “Ms. Cornell looked right at us. Why did she speed up like that?”

June patted her arm. “There were at least seven judges in that group. Ms. Cornell was probably avoiding any appearance of favoritism. Don’t worry. You’ve got the talent. You’ll shine on your own.”

Hallie nodded. “What number am I?”

June checked the card that the stage manager had handed them. “Twelve. Middle of the pack. Perfect placement.”

She glanced toward the auditorium seating and froze. One row behind the judges‘ box sat the same man she had spotted two days ago: Mr. Larson.

According to Karen, he and Edith were tight. June watched Marcus Larson nod politely as two judges leaned in to greet him. A cold knot tightened in her stomach.

If Hallie and Karen could cozy up to Harvey Raine, Edith could just as easily leverage the Larson name. June had spent last night scrolling through Bonrea’s news feeds, politics, finance, and tech.

The Larson family crest might as well have been the watermark on every page. Their influence ran deeper than she had realized.

“What’s wrong, Aunt June?” Hallie asked, following her gaze.

June snapped back to attention and steered Hallie away. “Nothing. Let’s get back to the dressing room. Showtime is almost

here.”

She couldn’t let Hallie spot the Larson contingent, not now. One dip in confidence, one tremor of doubt, and the emotional arc of Feux Follets would flatten. At this stage, even a flicker of nerves could cost the championship.

*****

At 9:30 a.m. sharp, the final round began. The auditorium was packed. Row one was reserved for the judges, row two for VIP guests. After a contestant was announced, he or she walked onstage, bowed, and began to play.

When each performance ended, the ten judges typed scores into their tablets. The highest and lowest numbers were automatically discarded, and the remaining eight were averaged for a final score out of ten.

The first contestant looked pale under the lights. Midway through the piece, he cracked, hitting a cluster of wrong notes. He didn’t quit, though. He soldiered on to the final chord. Result: 8.6.

Number two attacked a ferocious warhorse, hands flying, pedal stomping, passion dialed to eleven. Clean execution, big sound. Applause rippled. 8.9.

Backstage, June and Karen watched the live feed in the dressing–room lounge. June frowned at the screen.

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Chapter 155

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June remarked with surprise, “Back in the day, Cornell had a reputation for flamethrower critiques. Whenever she was a judge, she’d tear the contestants to shreds. Today she’s practically handing out gold stars. Look, every score she’s given is

above average.”

Karen, who wasn’t well–versed in the matter, casually replied, “Maybe everyone’s skill level is pretty good this time.”

Joselyn had indeed mellowed somewhat. Perhaps it came with age. She no longer felt the need to be harsh with these young performers. She thought, ‘So what if they make a mistake? They are still young and have plenty of time to improve.

The lowest score she had given so far was an 8, and the highest was a 9. She hadn’t yet encountered a contestant who truly impressed her.

Contestant eight was Sandy Nash. A native of Bonrea, she was tall with strong, striking features. She chose a powerful, impassioned piano piece. From the first notes, Joselyn knew Sandy was a truly skilled contestant.

When the last chord crashed, Joselyn typed 9.2. The other judges scored 9.6, 9.7, and even a 9.8. After the drop, Sandy’s official score settled at 9.5.

In the wings, Kerrie leaned toward Edith. “If Cornell had gone just a tenth higher, Sandy’d have 9.6. She gave 9.0 to the kid who fell apart. I can’t figure out her system.”

Edith sensed that Joselyn’s standard might actually reflect a particular fondness for Sandy. It was strictness born of high expectations and special regard.

“So far, only two people have cracked nine points,” Kerrie continued. “If you can get above nine, you might sneak into third place.” She elbowed Edith lightly. “Not that I’m piling on pressure. Ready? We’re up next.”

Edith drew number eleven. She followed Kerrie down the narrow corridor to the holding area.

Karen caught the movement and scowled. “Edith’s slot is right before Hallie.” In prelims, Hallie had gone first, Edith second. Today, the order flipped. Karen couldn’t tell whether it was a good omen or a bad one.

June forced a breezy laugh. “That works in our favor. She’ll warm the crowd up for Hallie. After her, you’ll look like Carnegie Hall. Stay calm. Once she finishes, we’ll get ready.”

Hallie nodded, smoothing the satin of her gown. She inhaled, exhaled, eyes fixed on the monitor. The next two contestants clocked 9.1 apiece. Respectable, but not intimidating.

“Contestant number eleven–please take the stage,” the host called.

Edith lifted her skirt an inch, stepped through the curtain, and walked into the single spotlight. The beam caught the silver- gray silk of her gown, the clean line of her shoulders, the quiet confidence in her eyes. She exuded a classical, elegant charm.

Up to this point, the audience had barely registered what the first ten contestants looked like. When Edith stepped into the spotlight, even the people who never cared about appearances felt their eyes pulled toward her face.

She was simply that stunning. She was so beautiful it felt dangerous, the kind of beauty that made the whole room hold its breath, afraid a single exhale might make it vanish.

Edith settled at the Steinway, and the opening bars of Réminiscences de Norma floated out. The piece is a love story soaked in tragedy, a surge of emotion most performers twice her age struggle to control.

The music began in frost and lament, as if every sorrow were foretold. Then, without warning, the mood flipped. A shaft of light tore through the storm clouds. Dawn cracked over a battlefield of broken hearts.

The tempo exploded into a feverish gallop, dense, percussive, merciless. This stretch demanded not just feeling but freakish mechanics: fingers that never lag, that sprint to the brink and stop on a dime.

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Chapter 155

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Marcus sat in the second row close enough to count every lash, to see the exact instant each fingertip struck ivory. The melody crawled under his skin.

He pictured two lovers racing toward an ending they already knew would ruin them, and the image sat sour in his chest. He hated that story.

Just when the music threatened to drown in its own despair, it flared back to life. The coda burst open like skyrockets. Love was finally allowed to blaze before it burned out.

When the last chord vanished, Edith’s back was damp beneath the silver–gray silk. She rose, bowed from the waist, and only then did the audience remember how to breathe. Applause crashed over the hall like a breaker hitting shore.